


Another One Of Those Nights

by prettyvk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, fic based on art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I should go to bed. He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself. He’s proved it often enough.</p><p>And he’s also proved the opposite, just as often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another One Of Those Nights

**Author's Note:**

> With my thanks to [hattedhedgehog on Tumblr](http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/) for giving me permission to write fic inspired by [her art](http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/post/52654198898/i-was-really-really-tired-but-i-couldnt-sleep).

Another one of those nights.

Third one in a row. Or is it four? I don’t even know anymore. I should know. Why don’t I know? 

What I do know is why. Tricky case. Not to the level of Moriarty or she-who-shall-not-be-named, maybe, but still high up there. It doesn’t help that the case has been closed for ninety-five years.

And it doesn’t lower Sherlock’s interest either. 

I don’t get it. I really don’t. Everyone who was connected to that case is dead, so at this point pinning the murders on someone won’t change anything. But he’ll still poke and prod at all the details and research some obscure point of botany until he figures it out, the same way he would if someone’s life depended on him – again.

I guess it’s okay if I don’t understand. I don’t have to understand to appreciate him and what he does. When he does figure it out, and I’m sure he will, the explanation will no doubt blow me away. And when I tell him so, he’ll be pleased. He’ll try to hide it, of course, but he can never completely hide his smile; not from me.

Sometimes, I wonder if he does it all to impress me. But no, that can’t be. 

Besides, I’m definitely not impressed by the mile-wide circles under his eyes. Or the way his hands are shaking. Or the fact that his skin has taken the color of his ash sample number 41.

“I’m going to bed…” 

No reaction. No acknowledgment. Did he even hear me? I step a little closer.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” 

His eyes flick up to me. In the light of his computer, they look gray and dull. I need to find a way to drag him outside, tomorrow. Put a bit of sky back in his eyes.

His answer is a noise that could sound like a yes, but only with a lot of imagination. His fingers continue to clickety-click on the keyboard. 

I should go to bed. He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself. He’s proved it often enough.

And he’s also proved the opposite, just as often. 

Swallowing a sigh, I ask, “How long have you been awake?”

I have to say his name again and repeat the question before he finally answers. 

“Seventy-four hours.” There’s no inflection in his voice, nothing to show he realizes it’s an insane number. A mind-boggling number. A completely stupid number. But he must know, or feel my disapproval, because without prompting he adds, “Brain won’t shut down. I figured I’ll keep working.”

Ah, yes. Sherlock’s brain. Sherlock’s incredible, amazing, stupendous brain. 

Sometimes, I wish I could unplug Sherlock’s brain. Turn it off. Let him breathe.

And sometimes, I wish I could kick that stupid brain in the balls. Which makes for a ridiculous mental image, I’m well aware of that, but damn, it really would be nice. 

What can I say? What can I say that I haven’t said a dozen, a hundred times? What words would finally make him comprehend that I worry about him, and it’s got nothing to do with me being a doctor, with knowing the effects that lack of sleep can have on both body and mind? I worry because I care about him, I care so damn much it hurts to see him like that. I do more than care, but he’d never—

The clicking has stopped. When I look up, I’m startled to find him looking at me. Really looking, like he just might— 

—see.

I brace myself. A tired Sherlock plus suddenly discovered new information can lead to startlingly insensitive delivery of epiphanies. I’ve witnessed it often enough. 

Except… Seconds pass, and Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me with those painfully deep-set eyes, and there’s the tiniest of small lights gleaming in the gray.

Would I be an idiot to think it looks like hope? 

Probably.

Still. That light gives _me_ a bit of hope. Enough of it, in fact, that I reach for his laptop and close it. He lets me take it away. And when, with a light, “Come on,” I help him up, he lets me do that too.

He’s a little unsteady, so I keep an arm around him all the way to his room. Despite not being slept in for far too long, the bed is a mess. Sherlock just stands there and watches me with a small frown of incomprehension as I straighten up the sheets, plump up the pillows and make them more inviting. I wonder what thoughts are racing in that brain of his. It’s probably for the best that I can’t read minds. 

It takes a second or two when I pull back the sheet before he steps forward and climbs in. He lies there, on his back, eyes wide open, and while he doesn’t say a word, it’s all too clear his brain is still running and he’s never going to be able to sleep like that.

Can I— 

Should I—

Oh, damn it all to hell! 

Before I can talk myself out of it, I turn off the lights, drop my robe to the floor and climb in bed next to him. It’s not an accident that I don’t meet his gaze as I nudge him onto his side. He rolls over without a complaint, but his body is stiff as a board when I press against his back and wrap my arm around him, my hand splayed over his thundering heart.

For a moment, I think I fucked it all up. I’m an idiot, that’s what I am. There’s no way this will make a difference or… 

And then, I can practically hear it. Sherlock’s mind. Slowing down. Relaxing, just like his body. I can’t tell from behind him, but I’d bet anything his eyes are closed.

I’m not sure why I start counting his heartbeats. At fifteen, they start calming down. At seventy-nine, I’m just about certain he’s asleep. 

Thank God.

I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep right away. I should be freaked out, maybe, about being in Sherlock’s bed. But I’m not. Mostly, I’m relieved that he’s finally getting some rest. If I have to do this every night…

Well. Why not? 

As quietly as I can, I murmur behind his ear, “You can tell me if you need me, you know. I’m here.”

He doesn’t wake up, which is a good thing. I didn’t think he would. But I meant every word. And I think – no, I’m pretty sure he knows now. I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t forget.


End file.
